Sea. Quakes broke the continent of Ansalon, ripping it apart, forming new seas, creating new mountain ranges. The

city of Palanthas shook on its foundations, houses and buildings toppled. Yet not a leaf in the Shoikan Grove so

much as shivered.

Dark, silent, empty, the tower waited for its master, whoever that may be.

Raistlin pondered the history of the towers. In his mind, he was already walking the halls of the Tower of

Wayreth, an accepted and revered wizard, when an unseen bell chimed seven times.

The seven initiates, who had been walking in the garden, visiting with each other, or standing apart, reciting their

spells to themselves, came to a halt. All talking ceased.

Some faces paled in fear, others flushed in excitement. The elves, priding themselves on showing no emotion

before humans, appeared nonchalant, bored.

"What's that?" Caramon asked, hoarse with nervousness. "It is time, my brother," Raistlin said.

"Raist, please..." Caramon began.

Seeing the expression on his brother's face-the narrowed eyes, the frowning brows, the hard, firm set of the lips-

Caramon swallowed his final plea.

A disembodied hand appeared, floating above the roses in the center of the garden.

"Oh, shit!" Caramon breathed. His hand closed convulsively over the hilt of his sword, but he did not need his

brother's l warning glance to understand that he should not draw any weapon on these grounds. He doubted if he

could have found the strength to do so.

a small tower located between the two larger towers.

Raistlin and his brother, who had been the last to arrive,

The hand beckoned. The initiates drew their hoods over their ] heads, placed their hands in the sleeves of their robes,

and silently walked in the direction the hand indicated, heading for

brought up the rear of the line.

The hand pointed at the door in the foremost tower, a door whose knocker was the head of a dragon. No one was

required to knock to gain entry. The door opened silently as they approached.

One by one, each of the initiates filed inside. Leaving the sunlit garden, they entered a darkness so thick that all

were temporarily blinded. Those in front halted, uncertain where to go, afraid to go anywhere that they could not see.

Those coming behind them bunched up inside the doorway. Caramon, entering last, blundered into all of them.

"Sorry. Excuse me. I didn't see

"Silence."

The darkness spoke. The initiates obeyed. Caramon was silent, too, or tried to be. His leather creaked, his sword

rattled, his boots clattered. His stentorian breathing echoed throughout the chamber.

"Turn to your left and walk toward the light," ordered the voice that was as disembodied as the hand.

The initiates did as commanded. A light appeared, and they moved toward it with quiet, shuffling steps, Caramon

tromping along loudly behind.

A small corridor of stone, lit by torches whose pale fire burned steadily, gave no warmth and made no smoke,

opened into a vast hall.

"The Hall of Mages," Raistlin whispered, digging his nails into the flesh of his arms, using the pain to contain his

excitement.

The others shared his awe, his elation. The elves dropped their stoic masks. Theireyesshone, their lips parted in

wonder. Each one of the initiates had dreamed of this moment, dreamed of standing in the Hall of Mages, a place

forbidden, a place most people on Krynn would never see.

"No matter what happens, this is worth it," Raistlin said silently.

Only Caramon remained unaffected, except by fear. He hung his head, refused to look to left or right, as if hoping

that if he did not look, it would all go away.

The chamber walls were obsidian, shaped smooth by magic. The ceiling was lost in shadow. No pillars supported

it.

Light shone, white light that illuminated twenty-one stone chairs, arranged in a semicircle. Seven of the chairs

bore black cushions, seven of them red cushions, and seven white cushions.

Here was the meeting place of the Conclave of Wizards. A single chair stood in the center of the semicircle. This chair